


Work It Out

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Billy Hargrove, Foreskin Play, Hotels, Loud Sex, M/M, Oral Fixation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 02, Riding, Top Steve Harrington
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22606639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: There’s a Motel 6 on the far edge of Hawkins, just off the exit ramp and close enough to the interstate that weary travelers can pull off for the night without mingling with the locals a few minutes down the road. For as long as Steve has lived here, it’s been the only motel in town, aside from the pathetic excuse for a bed and breakfast that never gets any business; sometimes, Steve wonders if it isn’t a front, where the owner stashes wads of cash under the floorboards for the Chicago mob.In reality, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that’s ever happened in this town.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 7
Kudos: 211





	Work It Out

There’s a Motel 6 on the far edge of Hawkins, just off the exit ramp and close enough to the interstate that weary travelers can pull off for the night without mingling with the locals a few minutes down the road. For as long as Steve has lived here, it’s been the only motel in town, aside from the pathetic excuse for a bed and breakfast that never gets any business; sometimes, Steve wonders if it isn’t a front, where the owner stashes wads of cash under the floorboards for the Chicago mob.

In reality, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that’s ever happened in this town.

Parked outside of room eight, Steve bounces his leg in the driver’s seat, room key clutched in his hand. He should go inside, escape the cold, but his nerves keep him still, adrenaline firing under his skin. Every few minutes, he looks over his shoulder to see if anyone else is there that might see him, or that he might recognize. No one comes. This far into winter, no one in their right mind ventures outside of their homes for anything non-essential.

No one ever said Steve was in his right mind, though. Try as he might, when it comes to rash decisions, he would rather act first and think later. Which never ends well in his book, but at least he can say he put in the effort, no matter how many times someone smashed in his eye socket in the process.

Maybe he should’ve stayed home.

“Fuck it,” he says, soft in the quiet of the car, and kicks the BMW’s door open, shoving snow out of the way. Might as well go through with this, too, since he started it.

Once inside the room, Steve tosses his coat onto the desk, scattering the plastic-wrapped Styrofoam cups and a half-used notepad. The heating unit below the window pumps in stale-smelling air, but at least it’s warm in here, rather than in his car; the heater stopped working last month, and with school out and an endless string of snowy days, he hasn’t exactly had a chance to make it across town to the mechanic to have it checked out. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Steve flops back, ignoring the dislodged dust floating into the air, and the water stain in the corner of the ceiling that looks suspiciously like mold. The bedding probably hasn’t been updated since the seventies, all browns and yellows in patterns he can’t even begin to make out; the shag carpeting could use a vacuum, or a lawnmower, whichever comes first.

It’s not the worst place he’s ever spent the night—maybe bottom three at its best. Still, he wishes he had thought of anywhere else, maybe in Indianapolis or Chicago, or some other town with a population that wasn't outnumbered by cattle and corn stalks. In another life, he could’ve been born somewhere else, but he had to end up here, in the middle of nowhere, in a motel room waiting for the one person he never wanted to see again, even in his wildest dreams.

Said person takes the opportunity to pull in the minute Steve starts unlacing his snow boots, the rumble of the engine unmistakable. For a split second, Steve freezes, shoe half-off and heart panging in his chest. Part of Steve wished he wouldn’t show—maybe he forgot, or something came up, or he picked up a girl and took her home instead. No such luck. The engine shuts off, and for the few seconds it takes Steve to yank off his boots, it’s blissfully silent. No doors opening, no voices—just the quiet that accompanies falling snow.

Until he starts knocking—then, all bets are off.

This was a stupid idea. A stupid, idiotic idea that never should’ve come out of his mouth in the first place, but here he is, following through. “Fucking dumbass,” Steve scolds himself as he stands on socked feet. A hand in his jean pocket, Steve opens the door to find a lecherous grin gleaming back at him, cigarette dangling between plush lips. His hair somehow looks even better at night, curled and framing his face at just the right angles, like he’s been messing with it for hours. His shirt hangs open, tucked into his jeans without a single button in sight. A necklace adorns the space between his pecs, a centerpiece, drawing the eye.

Steve can’t look away.

“See something you like, Harrington?” Billy says with a drawl and pushes Steve inside, broad hand to Steve’s chest. He kicks the door closed and crowds Steve against the footboard, close enough for Steve to smell the cigarette stink of him, cologne doing everything it can to mask it. Steve bets he tastes horrible; his mouth waters just thinking about it. “Or are you chickening out on me?"

“Not a chicken if I actually showed up,” Steve shoots back, arms crossed. Billy appraises him, eyes lingering on his lips and slowly trailing down his throat, to the tufts of hair sprouting from underneath the collar of his shirt, to his chest, then up again. He takes his cigarette, unlit, and tosses it away, then shrugs his jacket off, the movement exposing more of his honey-gold skin, warm and inviting. Steve wants to touch, wants to taste him—that scares him most of all.

Because it’s not just guys he’s lusting for lately—it’s Billy Hargrove, the terror of Hawkins himself, all attitude with as much of an ego as a person can have. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get Billy off his mind, can’t stop thinking about him late at night when insomnia settles in. And if the looks Billy’s been shooting him for weeks have been any indication, the feeling is mutual. Or, so Steve thinks. For all he knows, Billy might still want to kill him.

Whatever rational brain cell he had before that day in November has officially left the building. Steve hopes it’s having fun in the Bahamas somewhere.

Low and teasing, Billy hums and steps closer, close enough for Steve to feel the heat rolling off him. Their thighs brush; Billy’s boots tease the inner curve of Steve’s feet. A single finger trails a winding path down his shirt, startling a breath from Steve’s lungs. “Thought you were too straight for this,” Billy insinuates. He grabs a fistful of Steve’s waistband and tugs him closer, until Steve feels just how low his warmth descends, pressing firm into his hip. “That true, Harrington, you still straight?”

 _Not in the slightest_ , Steve thinks. Swallowing, he looks Billy in the eye and uncrosses his arms, allowing Billy to enjoy the full breadth of him with more than just his eyes. “Pretty sure,” he lies, garnering a chuckle from Billy. “Could use some convincing.”

Billy clucks his tongue and dips his head, nose nestling into the crook of Steve’s throat. “Been told I’m pretty convincing,” he says, soft. He soothes Steve with his hands, stroking past Steve’s hips and rounding his waist while he kisses a wet path up Steve’s throat. Sucking in a breath, Steve steels himself, hands still hanging limp at his sides. He shouldn't touch—he wants to touch. “Remember what you told me yesterday, pretty boy?”

A nod; Billy nips his throat. “Yeah,” he croaks, and belatedly wishes he kept his mouth shut. Sometimes Billy can just needle his way into Steve’s head, pick at him until Steve snaps—and he did snap, shoved Billy against the side of the Camaro while Dustin and Max and the others watched, his face close enough that Steve could smell the spearmint on Billy’s breath. “‘Either put up or shove off.’”

A hum of agreement. “You think you’re in charge,” Billy chides. He sinks his teeth into the curve of Steve’s throat, sharp enough for Steve to hiss, but not to shove him away. “Like you’re the one calling the shots here. ‘Cause you like to think you’re powerful, but what’re you really? A big,” he pulls back to fist Steve’s shirt, dragging their chests flush, “wimp.”

“Hey.” Finally, Steve snaps out of it and grabs Billy by the front of his shirt, inadvertently yanking it open even further. Billy follows him on instinct, a sneer on his lips. “I’m the one that told you to show up.”

“And I did,” Billy leers. Their lips brush; Steve has half the mind to bite them. “But it’s just an invitation. You wanna show me you’re the bigger man here?” And Billy _shoves_ him, sending Steve flailing onto the mattress, “then _you_ put up.”

Vaguely, Steve knows he’s moving—knows he’s reaching for Billy, but his brain is slow on the uptake when he gets a hand around Billy’s belt and _jerks_ , dragging Billy onto the bed with him in a wild tangle of limbs. He drags Billy into a kiss just because he can, all teeth and heat and malice; Billy nips his lip for his trouble, then soothes it with his tongue; he tastes just like Steve expected, but earthier, like coffee and cloves. He can’t help but chase Billy’s mouth, moaning when his tongue gets involved, tracing the roof of his mouth, teeth, his tongue, like he’s on a mission to break Steve in.

And Steve almost— _almost_ —gives in.

The second Billy tugs his shirt off, Steve sinks his fingers into Billy’s skin, blunt nails tracing down his spine and to the waistband of his jeans. His belt comes loose easily, and Steve tosses it to the floor, afterward grabbing two handfuls of Billy’s ass. It’s nice, considering, not that he has any intimate knowledge of what another guy’s ass feels like, but Billy’s is nice. Full and plush, tight enough for Steve to want to sink his teeth into it. Denim against denim, Steve feels the blood-hot line of Billy’s cock pressed against him, slotting right alongside of his semi; together, they rock between kisses, Billy panting into his mouth and Steve desperate for every touch, every kiss.

It’s been a while.

“Never seen you so riled,” Billy rasps and pulls back, throwing his hair over his shoulder. If he really wanted, Billy could be the leading man in whatever porno a studio wanted to put him in, all thick, toned muscle and pretty lips, and hair long enough to pull. On pure base instinct, Steve does, marveling more at the sound Billy makes than just how soft it is between his fingers: throaty and rough, but desperate, verging on a whine. “ _Fuck_ , Harrington…”

“See, this is what you don't get,” Steve says and tugs, just to see Billy’s eyes roll back. “I fought tooth and nail for where I was, Hargrove. I had to prove myself, ‘cause you can have all the money in the world, but unless you can chug your weight in booze, you’re nothing to these people.”

“Believe it,” Billy pants. Steve lets go, and Billy growls his way into another kiss; he seizes both of Steve’s hands and pins them to the bed, hips working up a rhythm that Steve can barely keep up with. “But look how easy it was to take your title, _King_.”

Adrenaline spikes—somehow, Steve manages to roll Billy onto his back, the mattress springs creaking. Billy glares and leans up, but Steve pins his wrists above his head. Beneath him, Billy is the picture of Adonis, and Steve wants to fall to his knees in worship in more ways than one. He presses a thumb to Billy’s lips, a surge of heat rushing through his gut when Billy opens his mouth, allowing him inside; he presses into Billy’s tongue, the hot, wet heat of him, and hisses when he ruts down, a shudder ripping up his spine.

This is good—this is too good, and Steve can’t get enough.

Billy sighs when Steve pulls his thumb free, the lust in his eyes unmistakable. “You gonna sit there and stare all day?” he taunts, tongue between his teeth. “Ain’t gonna suck itself.”

Steve narrows his eyes, and against his better judgment, he lets Billy go—and Billy surges, fisting Steve’s hair. Steve groans into their kiss, the sting verging on painful; his cock twitches, noticeably, based on Billy’s smirk. “No idea why, but I get the feeling that’s not what you want,” Steve says.

Humming, Billy looks him in the eye, a glint of something predatory in his gaze. Before Steve can keep track, Billy takes Steve by the hips and rolls him, Steve’s head hitting the pillows. Steve’s shirt disappears, tossed to the wayside by Billy’s clever fingers, and Billy begins a slow, arduous path down Steve’s chest with his lips. Steve clings to him as he moves, a hand in his hair while Billy kisses his skin, tongue teasing whatever it can find. Namely, Steve’s nipples, tight with arousal.

And Billy takes full advantage of it, laving the flat of his tongue across the nub while he palms Steve’s cock through denim. On reflex, Steve tugs Billy’s hair, and Billy tweaks the other between his thumb and index finger. That alone brings Steve close, closer than he ever intended; he chokes back a gasp, catching Billy’s attention. “Think I found your weak spot,” he teases, finally relinquishing his grip.

Where he goes doesn’t make it any better. Face flushed, Steve leans up to watch Billy settle between his spread legs, undoing his belt with ease. Briefly, he wonders how many guys Billy has done this to, how many guys in town Billy has taken to bed, gotten them worked up and sucked them off without a care in the world. The rumor mill is a fickle thing, though, and Steve knows if Billy so much as got off with anyone that wasn’t a girl, the entire town would know in a day. Or, maybe no one cares, and Steve is out of the loop. He likes to think it’s the latter.

Either way, Billy apparently trusts him, and Steve doesn’t have any plans on spreading rumors.

That question quickly flies out the window when Billy undoes the button of his jeans, yanking the zipper down with his teeth. He barely even waits to get Steve’s pants down before he gets his mouth on Steve’s cock through his briefs, sucking wetly at the head while Steve shudders a moan. Billy holds him down and grins, tongue wet and shiny when he waggles it. “Know it’s big,” Billy says, low and heated, and tucks his thumbs into Steve’s waistband. Of course Billy would know—Steve caught him staring on numerous occasions and thought nothing of it, until today. “Don’t know how you walk around with it all day.”

“Carefully,” Steve says, voice pitched high.

Billy laughs and tugs the fabric down, exposing the hard line of Steve’s cock to the warm air between them. Steve watches him just… stare for a while, like he’s thinking about something, trying to figure out how to navigate the intricacies of giving head. Or, he could just be admiring. Probably that, because in the next moment, he has a hand on Steve’s cock, foreskin pushed back to expose the head; he presses his thumb underneath and rubs, shivers sparking all the way to Steve’s gut, breath caught in his throat.

“Baby, baby,” Billy says, husky, and licks—Steve presses his fingers to the base of his cock, already so close, but Billy shoves him away, apparently intent to torture Steve as long as necessary. Which, turns out to be another five seconds, the most embarrassing five seconds of Steve’s life. Thankfully, Billy doesn’t chastise him when the first wave hits, just continues to tease the tip of his tongue to his frenulum while Steve dirties Billy’s hand. White paints his lips, dripping off his chin, and if Steve could come again just from the sight of him, he would. Billy may be beautiful on a regular day, but his lips are sin incarnate, flushed from kisses and wet from Steve’s spend.

And he doesn't stop, not even when Steve begs, probably babbling nonsense. Billy _plays_ with him even as his cock attempts to soften, foreskin between his teeth, tongue doing decidedly filthy things that Steve has never even thought of or seen. Maybe he has a kink, or a fetish, or whatever it is, but Billy toys with him for longer than necessary, tongue winding underneath and around, dripping with saliva and come. Steve groans and falls back, covering his eyes with his arm. He can’t look—can barely breathe, and Billy doesn’t intend to let up any time soon.

The warmth of Billy’s mouth replaces his hand shortly after, all wet heat and pressure, keeping Steve hard well past the point of sensitivity. Steve holds onto him by the hair and _lets_ him, panting as Billy bobs his head, cheeks hollowed, tongue tracing every vein, every divot. A single hand splays over Steve’s stomach, and Steve grabs hold of it, tangling their fingers together. Some of the girls he’s been with have sucked him off, sure, but most out of a sense of duty, none purely because they wanted to. Steve never pushed, but they assumed—and it was nice, sure, but they never treated him like Billy does, like Billy has some sort of oral fixation that can only be soothed by a cock in his mouth.

Which, Steve isn’t complaining. Far from it, actually.

All too soon, Billy pulls off and rolls off the bed, too far away for Steve’s liking. “Dude,” Steve complains and opens his eyes, only to see Billy sliding out of his pants with three foil packets in his hand, and— _oh_. “Oh.”

“You’re in for a real treat tonight, pretty boy,” Billy says as soon as he knees his way onto the bed. Setting the packets by Steve’s hip, he drags Steve’s pants down and off, then follows with his underwear, all of it piling on the floor. Steve’s still wearing socks—Billy apparently didn't bother with them, or underwear. “You’re gonna get to put that big dick in me.”

“Aren’t I special,” Steve says—Or tries, because in the next second, Billy straddles and kisses him, the taste of Steve’s come still on his tongue. Steve groans and fists Billy by the hair, chasing every last drop. “Billy—”

“Shh.” Palm to Steve’s chest, Billy shoves him onto the mattress and keeps his hand there, even as he grabs one of the packets and rips it open with his teeth. “Just sit here and watch, yeah? If you’re good, you can touch.”

Steve wants to complain—wants to say _something_ , but he opts to watch Billy reach behind himself instead, mouth parting in a sigh. His shoulder tenses as he moves, nails raking through the coarse hairs on Steve’s chest; Billy’s cock twitches, muscles in his thighs tensing, and Steve can’t help but touch him, feeling just how hot he burns, how blood-warm his cock is when he strokes it. Precome wets his fingers, so familiar to his own yet so foreign. Of the countless times he’s gotten off over the years, Steve has never actually taken the time to get to know his cock, his pleasure solely focused on getting off.

Billy’s cock, though—Steve never wants to let go. Maybe another day, he’ll return the favor and suck Billy off, just to see what another cock feels like in his hands, on his tongue. He’s cut, and sensitive when Steve thumbs across the slit, gathering up the wetness spilling over. With it, Steve reaches between Billy’s legs and finds just where Billy’s fingering himself, teasing the tip of his finger over his rim.

Eyes half-lidded, Billy looks down at him, lip between his teeth. “Get the other one,” he orders, and Steve scrambles to obey. He rips open the package in a panic, and empties the lube onto his fingers, all under Billy’s watchful eye. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment—just moans when Steve sinks a finger inside, joining alongside two of Billy’s. He’s tight, and slick, fluttering when Steve crooks his fingers just right, where he’s touched a few times out of curiosity.

And judging by Billy’s moan, he’s found the jackpot.

“Stop,” Billy says—begs, really, despite just how hard he clenches around their fingers.

Steve lets up and pulls out anyway, and sighs when Billy kisses him, a brief distraction from the hand on his cock. To Steve’s dismay, Billy pulls away long enough to rip open a condom wrapper with his teeth; pushing Steve’s foreskin back, he rolls the condom on, and Steve bites his tongue, using the pain as a distraction from the pressure of Billy’s hand, then sinking in—

“Fuck,” Steve wheezes. He sits up long enough to watch Billy line up Steve’s cock and sink down, his brow pinched dangerously. Without thinking, he meets Billy’s lips and devours his groan, holding him until Billy settles, fully seated. He pants against Steve’s lips, tears prickling the corner of his eyes; one falls, and Steve brushes it away, doesn’t even question it. “You good?” he asks.

A dumb question, but Billy nods, then shoves Steve back down. Palms to Steve’s pecs, he uses the leverage to lift up, then shove back down, slow and sinuous, a constant grind. “Fuck, baby,” Billy rambles, eyes shut. “Should’ve fucked me weeks ago.”

“Shit,” Steve rasps, and grabs Billy’s wrists, sinking his fingers in. Billy rides him like that, at first familiarizing himself, then speeding up, his pace brutal. The mattress creaks with their weight, and Steve slaps a hand back to keep the hardboard from banging against the wall. Not that they have any neighbors—Steve’s pretty sure they’re the only ones here tonight—but the sentiment remains.

Billy, though—Billy doesn't shut up, and Steve wonders belatedly if Billy’s talking up his ego or if he genuinely means it. Because Steve has never heard anyone describe what his cock feels like with so many words. “Next time,” Steve says between grunts, hands to Billy’s hips, “fuck me next time.”

“ _Fucking shit_ ,” Billy whines, then pulls off.

Steve follows him without hesitation and crawls between Billy’s legs. Legs held open at the knee, Steve shoves back inside; he can’t get as deep at this angle, but Billy isn’t complaining, and Steve uses whatever leverage he can find to fuck the words out of Billy’s mouth. If anything, it only makes Billy louder, and Steve basks in it, his orgasm creeping closer, warmth spreading across his skin.

Stripping his cock, Billy clutches the pillow under his head and barely reins in a shout. “’M gonna,” he slurs, “’m gonna come, Steve.”

Steve just fucks him harder in reply, panting, grappling for whatever he can grab ahold of. Namely, the sheets. Billy’s heels thump into his spine, and his moans turn to howls, all before white stripes his hand and his ass clenches around Steve’s cock, muscles taut. He comes with a strangled noise, and Steve follows seconds after, half-collapsing onto Billy while his hips shove in and _in_ , through Billy’s tightness, through the sudden claustrophobia in his limbs. He shudders until it’s over, a thin sheen of sweat coating his skin, dripping from his temple.

Billy doesn’t look much better, sucking in air like he can’t breathe; he paws at Steve’s arms, then his nape, until Steve falls forward, face tucked into Billy’s neck. “You said my name,” is the first thing Steve manages, his brain finally catching up with him.

Before he has a chance to be mortified, Billy laughs and slaps his shoulder blade. “Don’t get used to it,” he says, mirthful as ever. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you say my name too.”

“Spur of the moment,” Steve says with a grin.

After a while, Steve pulls out and grimaces, still oversensitive; he bites his lip when he pulls off the condom, tying it off and flinging it into the trash can across the room. “Three points,” he whoops, only to see Billy roll his eyes. “Come on, you know I’m good.”

“Oh, you’re good,” Billy hums. “Think you’re good enough to keep in bed for the night.”

Steve huffs a laugh and throws his head back. Originally, he never intended to stay—this is supposed to be a one-night thing, just a fling to get out of his system, but Billy pulls him down and curls around him, apparently intent to hold him hostage. Not that Steve is complaining. “So’re we gonna talk about this?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder to find Billy looking right at him, infinitely softer than he was walking in the door. “’Cause this was nice and all—”

“But you thought I wanted to fight you?” Billy asks, and—yeah. Honestly, he half expected Billy to come in swinging, but this? This, he never anticipated. “Trust me, Harrington, think we’ve gotten that out of our system. As long as this stays between us, we’re golden.”

 _Huh_. “Yeah,” Steve concedes. He flops his head into the pillows, shivering when Billy kisses a line up his neck, practically licking the sweat from his skin. “So what’re we, like… friends with benefits? Are we even friends?”

Billy purrs, idly petting through the hair beneath Steve’s navel. “We can be,” he says, then goes quiet. “Don’t have many of those.”

 _Oh_. “Well,” Steve says, then reaches back to tangle his fingers in Billy’s hair, “as long as you cool it in practice, we’re golden. Alright?”

A laugh. Steve decides he likes that sound, especially coming from Billy. “We’re cool, Steve.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in a bit because I've been working on my book and reading a buttload of Raymond Chandler, but my brain decided to spill everything at once today and now I'm tired. BUT I hope y'all like this! I'm always here to write filth! 
> 
> I have one more fic until I hit my 200th fic (one of the ones posted here is my college portfolio so I won't count that one) and I wanna write something Supernatural again, so gotta start thinking of that so I can hit this milestone. 🤔
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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